


Not Your Average Janitor

by Batsymomma11



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Smut, Jensen The Janitor, M/M, Misha The Professor, One Night Stand, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, no hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25139077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: "Rock and roll went nicely with cleaning up after folks. It was a simple fact of life.Kind of like how Professor Collins looked nice in a tweed suit or how he was always polite and overly kind about Jensen cleaning the man’s classroom or office. Jensen was just doing his job. But Collins seemed especially warmed by the effort put forth."
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	Not Your Average Janitor

**Author's Note:**

> This is an RPF. BUT, this is also an alternate universe. Jensen and Misha do not have wives or kiddos.  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!

There was something to be said about Black Sabbath blaring to the tune of a toilet scrubber on porcelain. Or the squeak of a squeegee on glass. As far as Jensen was concerned, there was nothing more motivating than damn near blowing his ear drums into his brain while he worked. 

And if Jensen got the occasional odd look because he forgot where he was and broke out into a wicked guitar solo—he figured it was a small price to pay. 

Rock and roll went nicely with cleaning up after folks. It was a simple fact of life. 

Kind of like how Professor Collins looked nice in a tweed suit or how he was always polite and overly kind about Jensen cleaning the man’s classroom or office. Jensen was just doing his job. But Collins seemed especially warmed by the effort put forth. 

Few were the souls that dared to converse with the janitor on campus. The archaic mold of upper-class citizens keeping themselves separated from the chaff underlings. Or something like that. 

But Collins—Collins was different. 

Collins was a cinnamon roll of a man. 

And Jensen had a soft spot for cinnamon rolls. 

It was why he found himself hanging around the third floor of the Brookman building, thirty minutes after he should have clocked out and gone home. Because Collins was staying late and though Jensen wouldn’t consider himself a masochist, he usually allowed himself  _ one _ good ogle a day before heading out. 

Tonight—was no exception. 

Collins was perched over his desk, a stack of papers lined up by his elbow, one pencil balanced behind an ear and another in his hand. The picture of studious, precious, squishy, cinnamon roll, all wrapped up in collegiate wrapping paper. 

Jensen wondered if he could get high from sugar overload just by looking. 

“Just about to head out,” Jensen cleared his throat, “Anything else you’d like done before I go?”

Collins blinked up, stared at Jensen for a solid ten seconds then frowned as if he was just noticing he wasn’t alone in his office after all. “Oh uh—no, Jensen. Thank you.”

“Sure.”

Collins gave a soft sigh, tipping back in his chair as if the weight of the world was pressing him into the leather and Jensen shifted on his feet. He should leave. But he wasn’t. 

“Long day?”

“Yes,” Collins smiled weakly, sending crinkles spanning at the corners of his eyes and Jensen’s stomach twisted, “Very long. You?”

“For me too.”

It had been. On any given day, Jensen had to worry about the usual aspects of the job. Floors, desks, and bathrooms. But on a Friday, there was the occasional event on campus and on those days, he usually spent the better part of the day running around like a chicken with its head cut off. He’d earned the right to pig out in front of his television and then some. 

“I thought I saw you at one point over by the auditorium.”

“Yeah, pep rally.”

“Hm,” Collins shook his head, “You must be exhausted. I can’t imagine the mess we all must have made.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Jensen shrugged a shoulder, “Besides, it’s my job. I don’t mind working.”

Misha smiled again, Jensen looked down at his boots and the clock on the office wall kept time. 

The quiet that fell between them should have been awkward. Hell, Jensen should have left five minutes ago and hightailed it to his apartment where his recording of the Redwings game and a cold Budweiser were waiting for him. 

But it wasn’t awkward. And Jensen didn’t feel rushed to leave. 

He wanted badly to stay. Just—stay right next to that shabby desk and share the same space as the Professor. 

Breathe in the smell of old knickknacks and Irish Spring soap. Study the way the fading sunlight made Collins’ hair look more brown than black. 

“Jensen, I know this might sound—well odd, or uh—forward? But I was just about to head out and seeing how it’s dinner time, I thought maybe we could uh—that you might be interested in—” Collins stuttered to a stop and blew out a breath, casting a pair of very, very blue eyes up to Jensen and Jensen had to stop himself from blurting out his answer before the man got it out. 

There were few things in the world that could have surprised Jensen more than Misha Collins wanting to have dinner with him. 

But he wasn’t about to fuck it up by jumping the gun.

“—would you like to go get a bite to eat with me?”

“Yes.”

“You would?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Jensen bit his lip, laughed awkwardly, then struggled for nonchalance, “Yes, I would like to grab a bite to eat with you.”

Collins’ smile was careful, a little on the hesitant side, but clearly pleased. And it felt damn good to be the reason the man was smiling at all. 

“Well then, shall we?” 

If Jensen had expected dinner with the professor he’d been crushing on since the beginning of the semester to be strained or uncomfortable—it was far from it. In fact, conversation flowed easily once they sat down in the booth. Collins ordered mozzarella sticks for an appetizer and they settled on a supreme pizza to share for dinner. It was a low-key little family Italian joint that was within walking distance of the campus. Jensen had been there before, which is why he’d suggested it when asked where he’d like to go. 

It was the first place that had come to mind. 

Mid-way through pizza and his second glass of Coke, Jensen started to relax enough to remember how to flirt and attempted a little flattery with the Professor. He liked the way Collins smiled and the tips of his ears turned red. The way his eyes lit up when he laughed. 

It was a little like riding a bike. No matter how long he’d been away from the game, he hadn’t forgotten the basics. 

But Jensen wasn’t nearly prepared for when the tables got turned. 

“You know, the first time I saw you working on campus, I had to stop and do a double-take.”

“Oh yeah?” Jensen sipped on his drink for something to do with his hands. 

“You were breaking down cardboard outside the gymnasium. Sometime after Fall Break, I think? It was still warm enough that you were wearing short sleeves and your hat turned around backward. And earbuds. You always have those.”

“I do.”

“I remember stopping on the sidewalk and staring at you. I’d never seen someone look so damn good in a simple t-shirt and jeans.”

Jensen choked on his drink and promptly fell into a coughing fit.

“Are you alright? I—I apologize if that was—”

“No—no, it’s fine,” Jensen’s eyes were watering, “It was a nice thing to say.”

God, that sounded pre-pubescent. And far too innocent. 

Collins looked shame faced. “It’s been a long time since—since I’ve been out. On a—” he waved a hand at Jensen, “On a—”

“Date?” Jensen supplied carefully, finally catching his breath. That was what this was, wasn’t it?

“Yes,” Collins said quietly, “A date. I haven’t been on one in a long time. I haven’t had the time or frankly the interest.”

“Oh.”

“Not that I’m not interested—” he rushed out, one hand reaching across the table for Jensen and then aborting back to his lap, “I’m very interested. I just—”

“You’re a busy guy.”

“Yes,” Collins nodded quickly, “Very busy. My work means everything to me.”

“It shows. Your students love you. And I can see why.”

There. A solid lob back into the field. 

Collins blushed faintly, his smile more charming than ever and painstakingly shy. “Thanks.”

“So, up for a nightcap?”

It was the most forward Jensen could ever recall being, and it felt right. It felt better than right. 

Collins’ brows rose, his cheeks going darker, “You—you sure?”

Jensen laughed and tried to ignore how nervous it sounded. He would be lying if it hadn’t been just as long for him as it appeared to be for his Professor. He’d been busy, yes. But he’d also gotten out of a shitty relationship and had needed to regroup. His brother had assured him he’d just needed the right amount of time and healing to get back out there. 

A year and some change later—he was sitting across from the hot cinnamon roll professor of his dreams asking the man over to his apartment for what he was hoping would be a very satisfying and mutually meaningful roll in the sack. 

Progress? Hell, yes. 

A little terrifying too?

Yes, yes, and more yes. 

But that wasn’t going to stop him. 

Jensen had never been the type to go slow and cautious. He wasn’t built for taking things with the training wheels on. And he never would be. 

“I’m sure, Professor.”

“Misha.”

Jensen’s mouth felt cottony and his palms were sweaty. But God, was he turned on. “Alright…Misha, it is.”

Jensen was surprisingly pleased to find that Misha had no qualms whatsoever with hitching a ride on the back of his bike to his apartment. Nor did he mention anything about the stairs squeaking or the chill in the hallway because the place had shitty insulation. The man was all smiles and soft touches. Lingering looks. 

Everything Jensen would want in a hook-up. If—if that was all this was. 

They only got halfway inside the door before the first kiss sort of snuck up on them. 

Jensen got pinned against the doorframe, two hands fisted in a wrinkled oxford dress shirt while those long elegant artist hands framed his face and held him captive. 

It was—like falling. Into a pool of honey and not wanting to come up for air. 

Misha tasted like the mints they’d been offered after dinner. Warm and soft and welcome. His lips were gentle at first, then more demanding when Jensen sighed into the kiss, all but melting against the other man. 

God, it was good. So, fucking good to be held and to hold again. 

Jensen couldn’t get enough, fast enough. 

Kicking the door closed, Jensen tugged off his hoody and brought the t-shirt with it. Stumbling from entryway past the micro-kitchen toward the single bedroom, they crashed into Jensen’s door and started laughing when it didn’t open. Out of breath and strung out, they leaned into a each other and just held on for a moment, clinging with skin feverishly pressed into skin. 

“God, I’m out of practice.”

“Me too,” Jensen snorted, kissing a line down Misha’s neck, enjoying the scrape of the man’s stubble on his lips. 

“We—will—” Misha gave a strangled sigh, his breath choking off when Jensen sucked a bruise into tender flesh, “Remember together.”

Jensen figured his agreement was plain enough when he captured Misha’s mouth again and grabbed a handful of the professor’s hair to keep him firmly in place. 

From bedroom doorway, half-naked and crazed, to the bed, Jensen felt vaguely grateful that he’d had the mental capacity to make his bed before leaving that morning. Though, considering how little they were even paying attention to the sheets, he didn’t think it would have made much of a difference. 

“I uh—we should talk about—”

“Nightstand drawer. Lube and condoms.”

“No. Not about that. About—”

Jensen’s skin felt flushed from head to toe and with the added weight of Misha on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, he felt lightheaded. Right in the sweet spot of hazy with lust. 

“I’m a bottom.”

“You are?”

Jensen smiled, too far gone to give a shit if that surprised Misha or not. Not many would peg him for a bottom. He didn’t blame them. Tattoos, rock n’ roll and his fuck-off attitude didn’t lend itself to that sort of assumption. Then again, it didn’t particularly scream gay either. And he most certainly was. 

“Sorry. I just—”

“It’s fine. You top?”

There was a brief flicker of something animalistic and wild in Misha’s gaze. Something absolutely welcome. The man’s pupils were the size of dinner plates. “I do.”

“Good.”

It was all the permission Misha needed. Like flipping a switch, Misha became more confident in his moves, more in control and Jensen  _ leaned _ into it. Savored it. Damn near had a spiritual awakening beneath those strong commanding hands. 

When it was all said and done, Jensen could have said it was just amazing sex. He could have lied to himself and said he would’ve been happy with one time. One episode of wish-fulfillment and that was it. Season finale. End of story. 

But Misha Collins was a cinnamon roll kind of guy. He didn’t fuck and run. He didn’t toss a crass ‘thanks’ and then roll over and go to sleep. 

He lingered. He traced the line of Jensen’s brows with his fingertips and the shell of his ears. He kissed the slowing flutter of Jensen’s pulse and failed miserably at attempting to braid Jensen’s far too short of hair. 

He was—sweet. Unassuming and kind. 

Heartbreakingly gentle. 

“You can see the stars from your bedroom window.”

Jensen blinked, realized they hadn’t even turned on a light and all that was illuminating their naked skin was the moonlight, then hummed in reply.

“Ever make a wish?”

“Sometimes,” Jensen murmured, feeling absurdly sleepy in Misha’s arms. The man had a firm hold of his middle and was dragging his knuckles from Jensen’s navel to a hipbone and back again. Over and over. Each pass brought Jensen closer and closer to sleep. “Do you?”

“What? Make a wish?” Misha whispered, lips nipping at Jensen’s ear, making gooseflesh spread from crown to toe. Jensen arched into it, lifting and turning to steal a kiss. Just one more. Just because he was feeling good in all the right places and this didn’t feel quite real. Not yet. 

“Would you stay?”

Jensen could feel Misha’s smile against his mouth. He could taste it on his tongue. Like sunshine and butterscotch. 

“If you want me to.”

“I do.”

“And in the morning?”

Jensen bit his lip, rubbing his cheek against Misha’s, “You can leave. Or—”

“Or—”

“You could stay. And we could do this all over again. And then I could make you my terrible excuse for French toast by means of wooing you.”

Misha laughed and Jensen swore he would never, never admit that his toes curled. It was dark. And nobody would dare try and call him on it anyway. 

“I’d like that,” Misha murmured, “I’d like that very much.”


End file.
